Page 1 of Bitter Lies

Prologue: Aiden

“Explain that again.” I deadpan eyeing the guy across from me like he’s my salvation. “Pretty sure I didn’t hear you correctly. We’ll blame that on the painkillers coursing through my veins. The reason I’m still stuck in this hellhole.”

He’s talking nonsense. Acting like all my dreams didn’t go cock-up when a fucking bullet shattered my knee. Long road ahead to recovery before I’m moved to the ward for wounded personnel. That’s when I become a civilian again. A death sentence for a special ops sailor. I’m not stupid, but this guy must think I am.

“Sergeant Bishop, I understand this sounds too good to be true⁠—”

“Do you?” I shoot him a dirty look, taking in his sports coat, pressed dress shirt, and tailored trousers. Add a tie, and he’d pass for a big-shot CEO. “You don’t look like military—no offense.”

The corners of his lips curve upward, stating the obvious. “That’s because I’m not.”

“Then turn around and be someone else’s problem. I’m not interested. Unless you tell me I’m not fucked ten ways to retirement, you’re wasting your breath.” I shift in my bed and groan, hating that I can’t even take a piss in private thanks to the catheter shoved up my dick.

I’m lucky to be alive (so they tell me) after being ambushed by a group of insurgents. Fuck them. When I get out of this damn bed, I’ll prove my career in the Royal Navy’s Special Boat Service isn’t over. I don’t care that my knee’s fucked; they can buy me a new one.

He doesn’t take the hint. The arsehole drops into a chair like he’s deaf. “I’ve already made my rounds. Had this same conversation. You’re the last man on my list.”

“List?”

“Yes.” Pulling a thick dossier from his leather sash, he props it on his lap. “Like I was saying. I’m here to offer you a job.”

Is this wing also part of the mental hospital, because this gormless idiot has to be one of their escaped patients.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly hiring material.” To illustrate my point, I wave my one good arm up and down my body. Not only is my knee fucked, but my left arm and a few of my ribs are broken. “Didn’t you get the memo? Unfit for duty. Used up. Time to toss me aside and go with a younger, less damaged model. When I leave here, I’m heading to the retirement home for the washed-up.”

He gives my body a thorough once-over before opening his mouth again. His next words prove he’s dead from the neck up.

“You’ve got a few good years left, which is why I’m here.” He chucks the dossier at me, and when it lands on my lap, I grunt. “I’ll be back in a few days. Once you read that, you’ll change your mind.”

“Why would I want to read this?” When I open it, a scrawny wanker’s mugshot glares back at me. “Is this a damn joke? You think I’m impressed you dug up my sealed young offenders records?”

“No, just read it.” His gaze is stern and commanding, as if issuing a direct order. “All of it. What else do you have to do? When I return, if what’s inside doesn’t pique your interest, then I misjudged you. Maybe you aren’t the right man for this job.” When he’s done, he stands.

Letting my fury get the better of me, I slam the folder shut. I hate mind games. He’s lost his damn marbles if he thinks that tactic will work on me.

“What job? I’m no pencil pusher, you can shove that idea up your arse. That’s a hard no. I’m not sitting behind a bloody desk dressed in a monkey suit.” With a furrowed brow, I cast a disapproving glance his way. “You look like you’re at a funeral. I’m not dead yet.”

He jerks the door open, and the hallway noise rushes in. “You’d make a horrible pencil pusher. Read the file.”

God, I hate it when people don’t fucking answer me. Which is why I grab the folder and toss it on the table next to my bed. Intriguing or not, I’m not reading it.

An hour later, and bored out of my goddamn mind, I eye the thick dossier still winding me up. This is why he left it. The manipulative sod knew I’d cave. It’s fucking bollocks.

“For fuck’s sake!” On a grunt, I reach for the table, its screeching wheels protest as I drag it in front of me. Once the bed is in an upright position, I flip the damn thing open.

“You made some stupid mistakes, kid,” I tell my teenage self, a bittersweet smile playing at my lips as I turn the page.

An older, almost identical version of that kid glares at me.

My father.

I hate him.

Everyone always said I looked like Todd Bishop. I never wanted to believe it, wanted nothing to do with him after he walked out on us. Funny how what we want and what we get are two different things.

My misdemeanors pale in comparison to his extensive criminal history. His list is a terrifying testament to a life of crime, ten times the length of mine. We started around the same age, but because he never found his way out, his only grew. He’s in prison now, serving life for murder.

I should be inside with him, but I was given a second chance to make something better out of my life. When offered a choice between the military or jail, I chose the navy. It saved me, took me off the streets and gave me a purpose. Until some arsehole stole that from me. Now I’m at a crossroads again.